


Laying Siege to the Stately Ho(l)mes of England

by GrytpypeThynne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff and Crack, Implied Relationships, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrytpypeThynne/pseuds/GrytpypeThynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toy swords, kitchen knives, cricket bats, grenades, paintball and a copious amount of alcohol combine as Greg, Mycroft, John, Sherlock, Anthea, Mummy Holmes and a fanatical butler clash during a night of utter madness (but brilliant fun.)<br/>The week in the country comes to a glorious, bloody conclusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laying Siege to the Stately Ho(l)mes of England

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [If It's Not One Thing, It's Your Mother](https://archiveofourown.org/works/414570) by [PC_Hopkins (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/PC_Hopkins). 



A week is a long time in politics. It’s an even longer time in a Norfolk mansion with your boyfriend (unsympathetic), his mother (hell, high heels, overtly homophobic, the whole bit) and her butler (with a crush on his mistress.) By the end of the working week, Greg was ready to explode. The only thing that could make matters worse would be a visit from the other brother. So, obligingly, Sherlock arrived on Friday, just before dinner. He brought John too, a dazzlingly thoughtful gesture, equivalent (in terms of stopping Mrs Holmes from derailing everyone’s relationships and destroying every last grain of happiness left to her sons and their partners,) to using a shot glass full of colouring to dye the oceans red.

It was a bad day, Saturday; things had been happening all day. If by ‘things’ you meant Ms A. Holmes, divorced and her associate Bartholomew Barrymore Esquire. There was an oppressive feeling rife within the mansion. Perhaps it was just the low-lying cloud and the pressure of a storm building overhead. A poet would have said that there was madness in the air that night. Intelligence and Police reports filed in the following days seemed inclined to agree. It began, as such things do, very slowly and boringly. To give a proper idea of the complex series of motivations that culminated in that night of insanity, we would have to start somewhere between the time that humanity’s forebears dragged themselves out of the ocean and when they threw themselves (or were pushed) out of the trees. Or, to cover the most basic points, around the time Greg and Mycroft arrived on Monday. This would be unimaginably painful for anyone with the smallest amount of human feeling and so, we will begin, not at the beginning, not even midway, but at the climax. The start of the climax perhaps but the climax nonetheless. It began thus:

“John,” Sherlock said, drawing out the one syllable name into a drone. It didn’t prompt a response, because John wasn’t there. The chez-longue he was reclining on was a poor substitute for the sofa in Baker St. It was painfully uncomfortable, in the best traditions of the stately homes of England and upholstered in some hideous shade of pink. Sherlock didn’t open his eyes, sparing them the pain of looking at the matching curtains and, beyond that, the horrifically well-manicured lawn. Sherlock subsided into a sulk as he waited for something interesting to happen. At home, he would have had a gun to a wall without a second thought but here – oh irony, in the very seat of the Holmes Estate, prime hunting for most forms of game and fowl – guns were not permitted. It was all John’s fault. Or Mycroft’s. Perhaps Lestrade’s, in part; he couldn’t imagine Mycroft volunteering to take his… thing for a weeklong trip to the country to visit _Mummy_.

Far away, with alarming accuracy that came only from having a man dedicated to achieving such a feat, the clocks chimed the hour. It was six, dinnertime as far as Mummy was concerned and Sherlock would not be attending. He could imagine them there, the intolerable butler silently watching as John and Lestrade fumbled with social niceties and Mycroft failed completely to be anything other than a wet leech about the whole process.

He was in a new room, one he’d never been in before, a fact attested to by the lack of a recent re-glazing, plastering or paintjob that were normal treatments of any room Sherlock stayed in for more than five minutes at this inescapably uninteresting manor. Still, the others wouldn’t be having much fun with five courses of small talk and verbal manoeuvres. John or Lestrade would break first. Mycroft had a handicap in games that Mummy played, stemming from the fact that he used to play on her side and still, occasionally, did. Lestrade had been here the whole week and was barely containing his emotions; John had not, but then John didn’t live with Mycroft and had less experience dealing with the antisocial side of the Holmes genius. John would crack first –

“Sherlock!” Slam! Sherlock, face down in a pillow, smirked; he had been right. Obviously. “I can’t take much more of that _bloody woman_.”

“I told you she’d would be insufferable,” Sherlock said, rolling over so that he could enjoy the patches of John’s face that were turning red.

“Yes but I didn’t think you meant like you. I didn’t think anyone could be as bad as you, except perhaps Mycroft and _She’s_ worse than the pair of you.”

“Well she did raise us,” Sherlock said smugly, “What did you expect?”

“That you couldn’t stand her because she was _normal_ , I suppose.” John had calmed down a bit, which was the opposite of good. Sherlock decided to stoke the fire a bit.

“What happened exactly?” …Not that he cared of course. John spluttered a bit along the lines of ‘Well… I…. she…’

“She’s the bloody limit, that’s what she is!” he said at last. Sherlock thought dispassionately that what ‘She’ did was talk and stare and talk and it sounded quaint and pathetic to give in so easily but she was a master at emotional manipulation; where did everyone think Mycroft got it?

“Yes,” Sherlock stood and walked over the coffee table to reach John.

“We have to do something!” John said. Sherlock gave him a look.

“What do you suggest?” he asked. John opened his mouth, closed it again and frowned. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. John looked at Sherlock questioningly. Female footsteps, so unless Mummy had hired a maid or Mycroft was returning to _that phase_ of his life, She was coming. He nodded.

“Hide?” John offered. Sherlock smiled and took his hand. There was another door that opened onto another hallway. Sherlock pulled John through and closed it softly behind them.

“Servant’s passage,” he explained. He seemed to be always doing that. Mummy wouldn’t come in here. Oh, but Barrymore would, especially if She sent him. He didn’t waste time for John to catch up but took off again, up and down and round the house, taking the inexplicable inefficient passageways to the old playroom. It was a bit of a gamble; if you tried to rank places in the house he least wanted to be and subtracted ‘the room Mummy’s in’ from the equation, the playroom was near the top of the list. The question was how many double bluffs Mummy anticipated; would she expect him to hide here or somewhere that was a little less loaded with nostalgia? They had a few minutes in any case. He need to concentrate, he needed to _think_. He could outwit her, if only he truly put his mind to it…

John was rummaging through their old toy box. It was a jumble of toys, half-broken, most of them; the last person to tidy up had _not_ been Mycroft. Here was a stuffed bear and here some kind of plastic chemistry set. There were some very ugly looking cultures of things on the inside of some of the vials; a hand full of plants wrapped in greaseproof paper and marked ‘poison.’ John found a set of wooden swords and shields; one had a very nice-looking coat of arms on it, blue with a yellow stripe in the left half and red with a sort of white blob on the right. It had the motto ‘Esse Quam Videri’ beneath. “What’s this mean?” he asked Sherlock.

“To be, rather than to be seen,” Sherlock replied, barely glancing at it, “Mycroft’s personal motto,” he continued with a sneer, “and the family coat of arms, of course.” John dusted off the other shield with one sleeve; it had a less traditional standard, a skull wearing an eye-patch and a bandanna with the words ‘Primus inter Pares’ beneath. “First among equals,” Sherlock said without looking up. John lifted one of the swords, testing the weight. It was stupidly well balanced for a toy sword. John tried a few careful swipes with it, admiring the way it swished through the air. It was springy too. Sherlock smiled; John had no technique to speak of, in the fencing sense, but he did have the air of ‘strong man brandishing a deadly weapon’ down perfectly. Sherlock considered a shield; John might take out an eye if he wasn’t careful. He made sure the shield was his own, leaving John to take his brother’s. Another sword called out to him; he took it and saluted.

John charged and Sherlock blocked, grinning. He took a few steps, circling carefully. John dove forward again and Sherlock brought his shield up and struck out with his sword; it glanced off John’s, making what Mummy would call a terrible racket. John had swung back; Sherlock had to duck to avoid concussion. John was good. “Army, remember?” John said, grinning even as he panted slightly. Footsteps sounded on the landing and Sherlock pouted. Mummy was coming. John looked at the door and then at the sword in his hand. 

“Sherlock,” he said cautiously, “You don’t think…” Sherlock smiled

“Perfect, John,” Sherlock said, crossing silently to the door. “Now, examine this corridor; how would you suggest we take it?” He turned the handle and opened the door a crack; John peered through the gap.

“It’s tight,” he replied seriously, “Close quarters fighting for the most part. We should focus on securing the most important parts of the house, strategically. How are you off for cellars?”

“Cellars?”

“Alcohol,” John replied, “for medicinal purposes, of course.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, his lip twitching slightly. “We have some quite extensive cellars.”

“As in, I’m going to need a bloody drink after this,” John said continued, still playing along, “Now, I’m drafting you, Holmes, to the First Baker Street Regiment, rank of Lieutenant. Report; the enemy’s fighting capabilities and our status.” Sherlock saluted.

“Sir! One butler, full prepared for battle. One old woman, treacherous, approach with caution. Considerable weaponry viz; a kitchen’s worth of knives and similar sharp objects, various mounted hunting weapons of various dates, including sixteen full suits of armour and forty-three varieties of spear. They have control of the ground around us, so this mission will be in enemy territory. Supplies are low, Captain. We can hold out for maybe a day with these rations; one packet of cigarettes, half-empty, no water, no food-“ he grinned, “no drink. Our current position is untenable. Suggest secure more defensible base.”

“Very good, Holmes,” John replied, trying to control his grin and maintain his tough, captainly persona; it was difficult when Sherlock’s army character acted so much like John Cleese. “This corridor is tight, yes and we know the enemy is not expecting an attack so deep into their own territory. You will lead the offensive, lieutenant.” Sherlock saluted again and John decided that would be the subject of an extensive disciplining session at some point; Sherlock was going to have to dig the latrines. “Wait until they come round the corner,” he instructed, pulling the door open. Sherlock saluted again; definitely over-eager. The footsteps were growing louder. John personally thought that it sounded nothing like Her but what did he know? Sherlock could tell it was Barrymore. He hefted his shield higher up his arm and adopted a stance ready to charge. “Wait for it,” John said softly, “wait for it… _now_.”

Voicing a war cry that would not have been out of place in the Charge of the Light Brigade, Sherlock took off down the corridor. A very surprised Barrymore had the presence of mind to duck, which was fortunate. An even more surprised John had no choice but to follow the stupid git. After all, even though he had ordered the charge he’d not expected Sherlock to go through with it. He raised his shield and charged. Barrymore had been lucky once; he could not expect to be so again. John barrelled into him with surprising force and had bowled him over onto his back before he knew what had hit him. John was away, whooping and hooting down the stairs in hot pursuit of Sherlock.

Barrymore got to his feet, with no small consideration of various aches. He brushed off his jacket meticulously and straightened it. He would go straight to the mistress. She would know what to do about this rabble that had invaded the house. Barrymore nodded. They would triumph; they would overcome. Then, with a soft ‘click,’ the power went out.

There were many things you could do without power and unfortunately one of them was paperwork. After dinner Mycroft had repaired to a room, which contained, it seemed to Greg, the house’s full stock of candles. There were giant candlesticks in gold and silver as well as small boxes practically stuffed with the things. This was another worrying sign of Mycroft’s clairvoyant tendencies. When they were plunged into darkness it took a few seconds for Mycroft to manoeuvre Greg’s secret cigarette light out of his trouser pocket. Within moments he had restored light to lives otherwise filled with the prospect of a night alone together in the dark, probably fumbling in each other’s trousers for things other than lighters.

Once a sufficiency of candles had been lit Mycroft sat at a table and pored over reports by the flickering light. Greg lounged in a squishy armchair close to the door and reached level twenty-six of Tetris on his phone. It beat talking, for one thing, and he wasn’t completely sure he was forgiven for the incident with Mummy earlier. All was going as well as might be expected when great crashes and shouts from above broke the silence, which had moved gradually from frigid and stony to amiable.

Mycroft stood, alarmed, and nearly set fire to his all-important paperwork. Greg rolled out of his chair and got to his feet without so much as a grunt. He kicked off his shoes, the better to creep to the door. The whoops and yells were getting louder. Greg pulled the door open in time to see Sherlock come racing down the hall, wildly flailing a toy sword. He slammed it shut again just in time to avoid being concussed by John as he rushed past a moment later. The wooden implement was crushed between door and frame. Greg heard John a little sheepishly say, “Uh, Sherlock, my sword’s broken.” The reply was breathless and enthused.

“Come _on_ , John we’ll replace it but we must get to safety!” Greg looked at Mycroft, who was watching with a look of utter horror on his face.

“What can have possessed them?” he asked the room at large. Greg, its only other occupant, didn’t feel qualified such a difficult question. Only after years of marriage would someone be even nearly skilled enough to brave that minefield and Greg’s divorce didn’t quite cover it. He shrugged, the best alternative and replaced his shoes.

“Think we should go after them?” Mycroft shook his head.

“Barrymore will make sure they don’t do too much damage.” The lights flickered and came on again, full strength. Lestrade looked up.

“Fuse?” he offered. Mycroft had returned to his paperwork, making use of the improved light. Greg sighed. He might risk popping down to the kitchen for another cup of tea before bed. If there wasn't the risk of running into one of the resident house horrors… or Sherlock and John, given their current state. He wouldn’t ring for the butler, because that would involve perpetrating the class system engrained in Mummy’s depraved mind. He was considering ringing for pizza (sweetbreads for dinner, _honestly_ ) when the door opened. Greg dove behind the armchair, he wasn’t sure why he did so but he had thought it was Her; She was the only person who could move so silently. He peered cautiously over the top of the armchair.

Standing in the door was a much more feminine female figure. She carried two large and heavy looking bags. “Anthea?” Mycroft said, not looking up.

“Hello sir,” said she, moving into the room. She threw one of the bags at Greg as she passed. He caught it. “We were rather worried when the power went out. There’s a paramilitary squad on stand by in King’s Lynn but I thought I’d better see if there was any actual cause for concern before giving the go order.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” Mycroft said, “We’re all perfectly fine, of course.” Greg shook his head significantly at Anthea, who had glanced his way to confirm.

“All the same, I’d like to check out the kitchens, sir, I heard the sounds of a disturbance there on my way past.” Mycroft nodded, strangely absentminded. Anthea opened the bag she still carried and pulled out several manila folders. “These are the reports you requested.” Mycroft took them, smiling his thanks and Greg rather gave up on getting anything non-diplomatic done this evening. “May I take Greg, sir? In case it’s a police matter?” Greg leapt at the chance, not waiting for Mycroft to confirm. Anthea nodded to his bag and after staring at her blankly for a few moments he got the idea. Opening it, he found a military-issue combat vest in Anthea’s favourite colour of black and a good old-fashioned ball-bearing cosh, which he would chose over John and Sherlock’s swords any day. He grinned at Anthea. All he really needed now was a silly hat.

“Oh, Anthea?” Mycroft said as they made to leave. “If you encounter my mother along the way…”

“Yes?” _Please authorise us to use all necessary force,_ Greg thought desperately, _please._

“Nothing, nothing.”

John and Sherlock had found a cellar well suited to their purposes. Sherlock now sported a bandage (well a bandana, really) around his head, as part of John’s treatment of an injury sustained when a piece of plastering looked at him the wrong way. It gave him an unnatural similarity to the device on his shield which, when coupled with the bottle he was idly sipping (John had needed to open it to clean Sherlock’s head wound, it wasn’t _wasteful_ ) made him look quite mad. John was still mourning his wooden sword. “Cheer up, Captain,” Sherlock said earnestly, “Let’s go raid the kitchens. We need to eat, keep up our energy for the next strike.”

John wasn’t sure what the ‘next strike’ was but he never declined a chance to force Sherlock to eat so he agreed to the proposed raid. “Very well, lieutenant, you know this territory better, how would you recommend we take the approach?” Sherlock did some painstaking drawings of the corridors leading to the kitchens.

“Pantry is _here_ , access through kitchen only… I suspect that we will meet resistance there. Recommend we split, go in from each of these two doors in a pincer movement.”

“Approved,” John said. “Let’s move.” He took off for the stairs up from the cellar.

“Ah, Captain?” Sherlock was standing beside the two suits of armour that seemed to guard the cellar door. “I think we should arm ourselves for the situation at hand.” John turned back and watched Sherlock dismantle a suit of armour. He soon was wearing a breastplate and carrying a properly heavy sword and shield. Sherlock had suggested a helmet but declined one of his own; he had a _bandana_ it seemed and this would protect him.

Barrymore had been given very specific instructions. He stood in the kitchen, the cutlery drawer open and two knife blocks facing him within easy reach. In his hand he held a carving knife and a honing steel, which he was using, he knew, quite contrary to its purpose; it only honed the blade and wouldn’t sharpen it. Still it made a quite pleasant and mildly threatening sound and he imagined would give pause to the invading hordes. As it happened it didn’t.

They came from all sides, screaming so loud that his well-calculated terrifying noise had no time to take effect. They raised steel against him and he reacted, naturally. The carving knife flew from his hand and screeched as it sliced across young master Sherlock’s breastplate. There was no time to think further. He threw knives at all comers, first the heavy, well-weighted ones from the block and then the odd ones that wound up in his cutlery drawer, the ones that were faulty, that didn’t match. The assailants hid behind their shields and waited. Barrymore had moved onto forks; there was nothing left but the butter knives, tiny, useless, blunt things that they were. Barrymore picked up his honing steel again and pulled open another drawer. Here was his weapon of choice; a good, old-fashioned meat-cleaver. He smiled. Let them try to take the pantry. He was ready.

Sherlock charged; Barrymore fended off the blow from his sword with the honing steel and struck back with the meat-cleaver. John surged forward, darting with Military Expertise. Barrymore pulled open a drawer with his foot; John collided with it, crushing his waist against the top. Barrymore was barely holding Sherlock off; he went for the groin, forcing the taller man to his knees then opening a cupboard on his face when he tried to get back up. John jumped, pushing Barrymore to the floor and landing on top of him. Sherlock got to his feet a little shakily; Barrymore was pleased to see, and pulled open another cupboard. He pulled out a rolling pin and offered it to John. Barrymore heard the swish of the blunt instrument through the air, then there was nothing.

Anthea and Lestrade had done some recognisance and found that Sherlock and John were holed up in the cellars, eating and drinking but causing no actual disturbance, simply enjoying the privacy for once. Greg, for one, couldn’t blame them. They trudged back up the stairs and met Barrymore. He was at the far end of the corridor, holding a weapon Greg, despite years of inner-London policing experience, couldn’t identify. Anthea knew it was a pike. She was more worried by his eyes, which held insanity both she and Greg recognised as the most dangerous sort, the violent but still intelligent sort. “Ah!” he said, “ _more_ intruders? Standards have been slipping.” He shook his head. “And just after I finished laying the traps in the cellar. They’re quite… explosive.” He smiled, a butler’s equivalent of a quiet giggle and Greg frowned, worried.

“Greg,” Anthea said calmly, “Go and get John and Sherlock from the cellar will you?” Greg nodded and raced back down the stairs, leaving Anthea, unarmed, to deal with a crazed butler with a pike. Sherlock and John had taken advantage of their prime position to indulge a little in the various alcohols held within. Greg could tell this because Sherlock was singing ‘Kiss me goodnight, Captain Watson’ to the tune of ‘Kiss me goodnight, sergeant major’ an crime he would never commit sober. Greg cautiously made his way into the room.

“John? Sherlock?” he began.

“That’s _Captain Watson_ to you!” Sherlock cried, throwing himself at Greg. They stumbled back into a wine rack, knocking it over. Greg rolled out from under Sherlock, hearing the glass crushed underneath as he did so and knowing that the alcohol would hit his head very soon. He got to his feet, holding his baton out in front of him, in case Sherlock tried again. He did and his sword jammed in Greg’s cudgel. Sherlock struggled, twisted and heaved, sending sword and baton flying across the room. He charged Greg again and Greg stumbled back, smashing some more probably irreplaceable antique wines as he fell to the floor.

He moaned and stayed down, hoping that someone else was going to restrain Sherlock; he was in that dangerous place, too drunk to tell friends from enemies but not drunk enough to be a stupid fighter. He heard the crunch of boots on glass, then the lights went out. “Retreat, Lieutenant Holmes!” That was John’s voice. Greg groaned and gradually got to his feet. He had to get out of the cellar before the fumes knocked him out completely. He still had his protection vest on, which was excellent. If Sherlock or John were planning to cut him with a sword he’d probably not even get a paper cut. Still the force of the blow would cause some internal bruising no doubt. He just wished he hadn’t lost his truncheon. Now he was weaponless in a house of complete lunatics.

He reached out and caught an odd rubber handle with a conical shape. Greg frowned in the dark. What was it? A soft voice whispered in his ear. “Cricket bat?” it suggested, not at all… suggestively. That was… what’cha call it, sarcasm. Voice was definitely being suggestive. Greg took the offered weapon and found the stairs. Together he and Mycroft raced after the others. When they reached what Greg’s romantic, popular fiction-loving brain called ‘The Great Hall’ the fight had continued on without them.

John was watching, sword in hand as Anthea wrestled Barrymore for control of the pike. The butler, despite the rules of strength and age being weighed against him, won. Anthea was propelled into a far wall. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John considered his options and went straight to Anthea. Barrymore watched him with a lazy eye, ensuring he was too absorbed in treating Anthea to be any threat. Then he turned to Greg and Mycroft. He felt in one exquisitely tailored pocket and pulled out a small metal object that Greg should have recognised. John and Mycroft certainly did.

“Best give that to me dear,” Mycroft whispered, prying the bat from Greg’s hands gently.

“GRENADE!” John yelled, throwing himself across Anthea. Mycroft tapped the polished oak floor in front of him and smirked at Barrymore. The butler took a carefully measured run up in lazy mockery of the traditions of cricket. The throw was a full toss, not a proper bowl at all and for this all should be grateful, as it surely wouldn’t have bounced right and might have ended their sorry Norfolk adventure right there. Mycroft swung for it with admirable vigour and hit it through an ancient glass window and into the grounds, where it exploded mere seconds later.

Mycroft smiled quietly to himself. Greg, educated as to the correct procedure by a certain Mister Flintoff (and Mycroft himself, occasional lyricist for the Barmy Army,) turned to the room at large and cried “HOW’S THAT?” – Mycroft insisted on good diction in such circumstances. More surprising than ever, John leapt up and hugged Greg in fierce celebration. Apparently grenades sobered him up enough to distinguish friend from foe. Anthea reached out a leg and hooked Barrymore, bringing him to the ground.

Mycroft threw his bat to the ground, creating enough of a scene to command the attention of the room. _His_ focus was on the man standing on the edge of the gallery. Greg looked up and saw Sherlock, his red bandana clashing harshly with his purple shirt and black trousers. Mycroft, his eyes not moving from Sherlock’s face, removed his jacket and waistcoat. He stood in trousers, shirt and belt, sheath for his long, thin sword clipped on like some terrible anachronism. He drew the sword… the rapier, it looked like, but what did Greg know? Sherlock smiled and jumped from the balcony.

Somebody gasped; it wasn’t Greg, he didn’t care about Sherlock quite enough to worry if he got his legs broken but then John probably didn’t like to see Sherlock jumping off _anything_ high. Regardless of whom it concerned, Sherlock did not fall straight down. Instead, he swung across the room, aided in his flight by the rope attached to the chandelier above and where did he get a grappling hook anyway? Anthea sat up enough to throw a knife at the rope; it cut above Sherlock’s head, saving Greg from a long conversation with local police about just how Sherlock had come to be risking his life by swinging into the path of knives. Sherlock landed on both feet, drew his own sword and advanced upon Mycroft. Greg and John stood warily on the sidelines as Mycroft waited, guard up, for Sherlock to reach him.

The brothers watched each other, unaware of everything around them. Sherlock swung his sword and Mycroft fielded the blow easily, returning with a lightning fast thrust of his own. Sherlock circled, Mycroft waited. Sherlock darted forward and Mycroft pushed his sword aside without effort. “You know, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, attacking high then sweeping down; Mycroft caught the blow halfway down and locked blades with Sherlock, “The thing about fencing is…” Sherlock broke away and tried a forward thrust. Mycroft took one tiny step to the side and batted his brother’s attacked aside. Sherlock smirked, “It’s all about the legwork.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and took up the offensive. Parry, thrust, block, parry, swing… they danced, except Mycroft wasn’t playing Sherlock’s way, keeping his feet firmly planted, he barely moved at all. Greg reclined against the wall, refusing to be worried about either of them, the fools; if they were going to have a fencing competition without any of the necessary protections that was their fault. He hoped that either Anthea or John had brought a first aid kit with them, however. Finally Mycroft began to move. At first he moved stiffly, as if each step was a pain but gradually he limbered until he was moving with Sherlock, continuing to rain attack after attack upon his brother. Sherlock blocked each attack but he was pressed back by sheer force of numbers.

Finally he was caught, trapped between Mycroft, a sword and the wall. Mycroft smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Hello,” John said, “Here’s trouble.” Sherlock had dropped his sword, an obvious form of surrender, but Mycroft was not letting him up from the wall. Greg, perfectly happy to sit around singing songs and holding hands with the enemy, especially if someone fetched beer of some kind and perhaps went for pizza, was worried by growing signs that Mycroft had been gripped by the same fervour as the rest of them.

All eyes were on the brothers, which was, perhaps, unfortunate as She chose that moment to enter the room from the opposite door. “Mycroft,” she said softly. Mycroft heard well enough, the room had chosen that moment to go deathly silent. He lowered his sword and turn to his mother. He raised an eyebrow, at her, a silent, condescending yes? Greg shivered. He knew that look. Glancing down the line of spectators, he saw John and Anthea equally unnerved by this development. “Kindly explain what has been happening here?”  
Mycroft rested his sword on the ancient woodwork and slowly, deliberately, increased the pressure. She watched, impassively as it chipped the wood, driving through it until it was stuck hard in the floor. “The pressure, Mummy,” he said, lifting his hand from the hilt and showing that the sword stood by itself. “It doesn’t damage the sword, but enough will make it stand for itself.” That was an analogy, Greg thought, rubbing his temples. It was too late for analogies. Mummy did not look like she enjoyed it, either. She tapped one foot and not to the rhythm of kumbaya.

“And Barrymore? Tell me what you have done to him.”

“ _I_?” Mycroft thundered and that was impressive, as Greg hadn’t known Mycroft could thunder. He fell more like the rains, soft and silent until bam, flooding. That was poetic. Greg groaned, poetry was another thing normal people, sensible people – and Mycroft was included in neither category – did not do this late. “I, Mummy? What have _I_ done?” Mummy raised an eyebrow at him; that normally stopped armies in their tracks, but Mycroft was not so easily swayed. He stared her down. He even advanced. Striding powerfully across the room, with such possessive, aggressive posturing she had no choice to mimic the motion until they met. He barely looked taller than her, but he was. It didn’t matter. This would not be a fight of physical prowess, however similar it was to the fights animals had between leader and challenger.

“Mycroft,” eyebrows raised, Mummy tried to regain the upper hand. He felt in his pocket, frowning slightly until:

“Ah,” he said, pulling out a slightly battered packet of fags, “Cigarette?” Greg snorted; John chuckled and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mummy narrowed hers.

“No, thank you, Mycroft,” she said, sniffing a little, “I don’t like fags.” Greg would have whistled, if this were street theatre, but it wasn’t so he settled for a sharp intake of breath. Even Sherlock looked scandalised, which said a lot. Then again, it was to do with sex… Mycroft clenched and unclenched his fist. “I mean really, darling, with that nice young assistant…” Mycroft closed his eyes, briefly. Was he praying, Greg wondered, praying for the strength not to belt her one, as they said everywhere Mycroft wasn’t.

Sherlock was coming over. Greg rolled his eyes. This would be a great deal of help. He paused near Anthea, watching John and Greg significantly. Eventually he said something and Anthea rolled her eyes. It must have been offensive, Greg thought, given Anthea’s usual, impassive modus operandi. She stood and, pulling Barrymore to her feet, stalked out of the room. Greg saw Mycroft’s impassive expression waver. Mycroft caught Greg’s eye and nodded ever so slightly. Greg echoed the gesture and turned to Sherlock.

“What did you say?” _you prat_ , he added silently.

“Nothing, honestly,” Sherlock whined, exasperatedly, “Only that servants shouldn’t be watching a family fight so she and Barrymore should probably go.”

“Sherlock,” John said, drawing the two syllables out into a full lecture. Greg looked at him and the roles in this scenario were painfully obvious; John would remind Sherlock about previous lessons in social behaviour while _he_ went after Anthea. Grumbling the minimal amount; this was still the most fun he’d had on this stupid ‘holiday’ Greg left. He found Anthea by a simple police technique; she was in the room with the lights on. It wasn’t a room so much as a renovated stable; apparently the Holmes family had modernised enough to replace horses with cars … and a motorbike, too it seemed. Anthea was buckling a helmet to her head with an almost palpable aggression. She looked up when Greg came in.

“I’m going to the vehicle licensing centre in Brightlingsea,” she informed him, “If I go back to King’s Lynn I might just order a raid on the estate.”

“Which you can’t do from Brightlingsea?”

“You know how the government used to give politicians it disliked the Northern Ireland portfolio and the Met sends troublesome officers to Sandford?” Greg snorted; he’d known a particularly upstart officer exiled there only recently. “Well they are to politics and police work what the vehicle licensing centre is to the civil service.”

“Ah,” Greg said, “So it’s impossible to achieve anything there?”

“On the contrary,” Anthea said, swinging one leg over the bike, “I imagine they will be eager to be of assistance; it will be the most exciting thing that has ever happened there.” She smirked, “they just won’t have the wherewithal to do more than fetch and carry for me.”

“Ah right,” Greg said, Anthea made him feel slightly at odds. Mycroft was far enough from normal to be no competition but Greg couldn't ignore the feeling that Anthea made a far better ‘keeper of her majesties’ peace’ than he did. “And Barrymore?” Anthea frowned.

“I’d better take him with me,” she said, “I don’t think we should see what he can do with industrial strength fertilizer or the hunting gear in the tool shed, do you?” Greg shook his head emphatically. “Pass him up.” Greg grunted with the effort of lifting the butler into a fireman’s hold. Anthea adjusted his position so that he wouldn’t fall off easily, eventually putting his arms around her waist to keep him upright.

Greg had to go back inside and probably face a verbal beating from Mycroft; She had surely cowed him by now. If not… Greg felt the loss of his trusty truncheon and later, that excellent cricket bat. “Uh, Anthea?”

“Yes?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a weapon of any kind?”

“Just two Walther PPK/Es and a 22 Target Pistol,” she said, pre-emptively apologetic.

“Ah, no worries,” Greg preferred not to touch guns, like all good British coppers. He would venture back into the house unarmed, foolish though this was. Anthea smiled and revved her engine. Greg just had the presence of mind to leap out of the way before she ran him over. He rolled his eyes at her receding taillight and, noticing the rain had begun again, decided to go back in side by means other than the trudge along the gravelly garden path and knocking on the front door. If only because that made distressing parallels to bad gothic-horror stories. He found another door in a side of the renovated stable. It led straight back into the manor, a surprising display of logic from this madhouse.

Greg was in a part of the house he’d not been in before. This wasn’t particularly difficult to achieve, given how little he cared about the subtle differences between the décor of the beige drawing room and the slightly off beige drawing room. He chose a corridor at random and walked down it, increasingly aware of his waning energy levels and the lack of a terrible New Scotland Yard coffee to buoy them. He wandered a bit before running into John and Sherlock. They were running full-tilt down the corridor and each carried a sack. “What happened?” Greg asked, mainly to John as they skidded to a halt

“Mycroft,” John said, panting, “and Her. Declared war. West Wing isn’t safe; twenty minute ceasefire.”

“Right,” Greg said, fumbling in his pocket for his phone.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock said, “We can explain to Mycroft why Greg’s a casualty of war when we get there.” He took off again, dragging John with him and Greg decided to make his phone call on the move. He nearly lost an ear to an axe-wielding suit of armour before he found the number he was looking for. Anthea answered almost straight away.

“Anthea,” Greg said, stumbling up a flight of stairs and nearly landing on top of Sherlock, who was kneeling in order to pick a look of some sot, “Can you bring some gear over for me? As quickly as possible.” Anthea replied that the incumbents of Brightlingsea’s vehicle licensing centre were only too eager to help. “Right. Jeans in my size; combat boots; a t-shirt; some hair gel; a leather jacket… do you want anything John?”

“Camouflage gear,” John offered.

“Sherlock?”

“Whaling harpoon?” Sherlock suggested hopefully. John and Lestrade stared at him.

“What’s that?” Greg asked, pretending to hear Anthea speak, “the vehicle licensing centre in Brightlingsea doesn’t have any whaling harpoons to hand but they’ll have a look in the basement?” Sherlock sneered at him in reply. “John says camouflage gear, if you have any. Food?”

“Chinese,” Sherlock said.

“Fish and chips,” John added.

“And a kebab for me,” Greg said, “Okay? Yes, everything’s fine. Don’t worry. No, I don’t think you should call the paramilitary in. You'd be most welcome.” This last accompanied another glare at Sherlock. “See ya,” Greg hung up. Hopefully the cavalry would be arriving very soon indeed.

They repaired to a room that Greg would have snidely called ‘the off-white sitting room.’ Sherlock collapsed on the sofa while John took over an armchair. Greg looked around the singularly boring room and found, to his delight, a speaker system. He examined it and found it contained an iPod that looked as if it had just been unwrapped. He examined the music player’s contents. Opera, Classical, Baroque, Church, _Ethnic_. Who labels a playlist ‘ethnic’ for Christ’s sake? Greg sailed through lists of composers and found nobody worth listening to at all. At least, not for songs of war. He tolerated Fidelio when Mycroft put it on but there wasn’t any Wagner nor Les Mis, the second and third choices for good fight music, respectively. Greg lost patience with the toy and ripped it from its cradle, throwing it across the room. In a surprising display of lucidity, Sherlock reached out and caught it. He scrolled through it in with one flick, pronounced it boring and threw it away, this time at a different wall.

Greg had another use for the speakers. He still had his phone out, which meant the only problem was how to plug it into the device. He found the right place and after a few tries managed to connect it to the machine. _Now_ the war could begin. He had a playlist in mind; it took only one try to select it. ‘Anarchy in UK’ started playing but too softly. Sherlock still put a pillow over his face. Greg found the volume control and doubled it. He was just playing now. He found an intriguing looking button on a discrete white controller. ‘Play in all rooms’ it read. Greg gave an evil grin and pressed it. Far away the house came to life as the inadvisably installed home entertainment network came to life, blaring the tracks from Greg’s slice of punk at a volume that made the floor shake.

This was summons enough for at least one of the house’s combatants. Greg and John heard the footsteps outside and froze, each wondering who it would be. Mycroft entered the room, wearily. He appeared to lack even the strength to put his fingers in his ears; he just stood there, looking at them. Greg swallowed; _not this again_. Mycroft just smiled. “Blood and destruction shall be so in use…” John frowned and Greg agreed with him. Things you couldn’t be expected to do after dinner included recognise quotes as well as decipher anagrams… anachronisms… metaphorical things. Mycroft continued the quote as he made his way over to Greg, “And dreadful objects so familiar that mothers shall but smile when the behold their infants quarter’d with the hands of war…” He smiled, self-consciously. “It continues in that vein for a bit but ends, ‘cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war; that this foul deed shall smell above the earth with carrion men, groaning for burial.”

There wasn’t much anyone could be expected to say to that. Greg chose instead to ‘embrace’ Mycroft. It wasn’t really a hug or a cuddle, more an awkward slinging of arms around shoulders. “That bad, huh?” he asked, hopefully comfortingly. It wasn’t a particularly good question, Greg knew and Mycroft’s slight eyebrow raise was reassuringly blasé as a response. Sherlock, of course, did not feel the need to be so subtle.

“Of course it was awful,” he said, gesticulating wildly with his hands. “Look at him.” Not that Sherlock had, Greg thought tiredly, he could obviously tell something was wrong with his brother because of some strange half-second’s pause in the motion of his right heel compared with his left. John made a half-strangled noise of reproach. “Well really, John, it’s obvious.” Mycroft lazily reached out a hand and smacked the back of Sherlock’s head. “Ow!” Sherlock sat up, intending to retaliate with a pillow but John tackled him, pushing them both over the sofa back where they struggled for a bit before subsiding.

“Are you sure she didn’t put testosterone in the sweetbreads?” Greg whispered to Mycroft in a rare moment of – he hoped- united thought. “They tasted like it.”

“We’re acting like it,” Mycroft frowned, “It bodes awfully for teamwork when Mummy attacks.”

“We could do some team building exercises,” Greg suggested dryly, “Paintballing, perhaps?” Mycroft barely suppressed a snort.

“Or appeal to their military nature,” he murmured. “Captain Watson!” he barked, sounding far too much like a drill sergeant for comfort. John stopped instantly and leapt to his feet. He saluted and Mycroft nodded officiously. “At ease, Captain,” John took the prescribed pose and Mycroft took one step to the left. “What is this disgusting piece of filth?” he asked, “one of your recruits, _captain_?”

“Lieutenant Holmes, fall in!” Sherlock got to his feet, much less willing to play the game now that Mycroft was involved. John turned back to Mycroft. “He’s rough but he’s eager, sir,” he said apologetically. Mycroft sneered at Sherlock, who opened his mouth and was elbowed by John.

“Very well, captain,” Mycroft motioned for Greg to join him. “This is Mr. Lestrade, a civilian expert in conflicts such as this. He will advise you, though defer in the case of military action.” Greg grinned at John who was stoic in response.

“Sir,” he said soberly to Greg. Mycroft’s plotting was interrupted by the sounds of movement beyond.

“Captain, post a guard on the door and scout,” Mycroft ordered. John saluted and made to obey. Mycroft took up occupancy in the hardest of the armchairs, turning it so that it faced the door. Greg lingered by the massive window, half-turned so he could still see Mycroft. They waited. Someone female paused outside the door; Greg could see the shadow of heels through the crack where door met floor. Sherlock opened the door and got rebuked by John for his foolishness.

“It’s just Anthea,” he said.

“Would you bet your life on it?” John demanded. Sherlock considered this.

“Yes,” he said. Mycroft covered his eyes with one hand and Greg snorted. Typical. Greg realised his music was still playing; they were just waiting for the next song to begin. He heard the first chords of Revolution… not really punk but violent enough, to be sure, as Anthea strode in. She placed one leather bag on the coffee table and set a smaller, plastic one beside it. Sherlock eyed the leather eagerly but he had to guard, John insisted. Anthea wandered idly over to Mycroft and presented him with, of all things, his umbrella. He smiled as he wrapped his hand around the handle.

John opened Anthea’s bag and smiled to find a slightly battered army helmet and vest right on top. “Gr- My apologies, Mr. Lestrade? I believe we have some equipment you would be interested in.” Greg grinned wickedly; he was enjoying this. It was almost as good as teasing Sherlock. He took the whole bag and used the curtains –there were two layers of curtain on these windows, what good was it meant to do – to change. The jeans were loose enough to allow fighting movement and he mourned the lack of a mirror to properly do his hair but… his wicked grinned deepened. It would certainly make an impression.

He was about to push aside the curtains when he heard more footsteps. She was coming - Greg wasn’t stupid, no matter what Sherlock said, he knew it was Her; there was no one else in the house. Hoping that if She attacked and somehow overcame John and Sherlock (Hm… yes, his money was on Her.) When She overcame John and Sherlock if he jumped out and surprised her Anthea would be able to use the situation to her advantage. That was a brilliant excuse that didn’t even mention how much Greg wanted to avoid even looking at her. He stood silent, waiting for his chance.

On the other side of the curtain, John and Sherlock both prepared to strike. Mummy opened the door and they leapt, crashing into each other. John, wearing his helmet strapped up as per regulations –military, not for family disputes, even the Holmeses didn’t have regulations for _that_ \- was able to recover. Sherlock, wearing a bandana, was not. Unfortunately John’s recovery was rather stymied by the fact he stood right in the path of a series of bullets. He was thrown backward, into the sofa. He gasped and groped at his chest. Blood? No; paint. John rubbed the colourful substance between his fingers as he battled with unconsciousness. It would still bruise, despite the protection vest, but it beat actual bullets. How had She managed to get her hands on a paintballing rifle anyway? Musing on the subject, John went the way of Sherlock, already passed out on the carpet.

Anthea was the next person to confront Mummy. She was torn between keeping between Mycroft and harm and openly confronting the woman who had, in addition to the paintballing rifle an ornate dagger stuffed down her belt. Anthea drew her gun; Mummy scowled.

“Oh, put it away _Miss Moneypenny_ ,” she snapped, “Mycroft would never allow it. Would you, darling?” Her focused shifted from Anthea to Mycroft who nodded wearily.

“Anthea, fetch a doctor, will you? I had hoped Doctor Watson would suffice but it seems he has…”

“Surrendered, sir?” Anthea suggested.

“Quite,” Mycroft replied, not meaning it all; he would have been happy to leave the sentence hanging. Anthea sighed and lowered her gun. Mummy stepped aside to let her leave and shut the door behind her. She then carefully took another step to the side and advanced on Mycroft.

“Now, _dear_ ,” she said as she approached. “Where’s your precious DI now, dear?” Mycroft remained in the chair, impassive. Behind the curtain, Greg tensed and the curtains rustled slightly.

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” Mycroft said wryly. Mummy locked eyes with him. He met her gaze as steadily as ever.

“Hm…” she said, “He _has_ run off, I see, abandoning you like they always do. _Why_ can’t you find someone dependable that’s what I always wonder and if you can’t find someone stop taking up with these commoners who are no better than they ought to be and certainly not worthy of you?” Greg counted two out-dated insults and one slap at Mycroft’s sexuality. He didn’t move and She gave another noise of disappointment. “Honestly, darling, this one was the worst of the lot – a _policeman_. We could all see his dalliance with you was just to get off the streets; I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t a criminal in his spare time. Really, he couldn’t hope to compare after Lord Moncrieff.”

It was at this precise juncture that Greg’s self-control gave way and he leapt through the curtain for Her. He didn’t have a weapon and he got a little… stuck in the stupid extra layer of curtain. He fought wildly, getting an arm and a leg through here and there. At last he tore through, only to be caught mid-leap by a twist of curtain that ensnared his arm. Mummy gave a shriek, which satisfied Greg no end and there was a soft thump as she hit the floor. Mycroft looked at him with an expression he only wore when unable to decide whether to cry or giggle.

“She dead?” Greg asked, managing to sound apologetic but without any actual sympathy or feeling for Her.

“No,” Mycroft pronounced after checking for a pulse. “I imagine she took fright at the sight of a wild youth bursting in through the window.” Greg smiled at the (inaccurate) use of the word youth and stuck his hands, punk like, into his pockets. “She will probably need to be taken to hospital. Collapses such as this are not uncommon in the elderly. However.” The however hung significantly in the air. “I would not like to risk my mother’s health simply to ensure the smooth passage of our holiday.”

“No,” Greg replied, maintaining, but barely, a suitable expression.

“And if, when she wakes up, she hears that we are still staying here, she will naturally worry about being a bad hostess and over-work herself trying to get out of hospital and back home to entertain us.”

“So… we should go back to London early?” Greg said hopefully. Mycroft looked at him and smiled a proper smile. It was a lovely story. The paramedics Anthea fetched would probably believe it.

“Yes,” Mycroft stood and added, “you idiot.” Greg raised his eyebrows, channeling (he hoped) someone who was rather more like Graham Norton than him.

“Ponce,” he said teasingly, looking at Mycroft’s tattered suit. It would become his ‘dirty chores’ suit in the same way other people wore old t-shirts to do the gardening.

“Punk,” Mycroft retorted, seeming to take Greg’s entire appearance in for the first time. He too, was resorting to camper means of insult. “What have you done to your hair?”

“Ooh,” Greg replied, stepping away from the curtains, from Mummy, “You prissy sod.”

“Chav,” Mycroft stepped with him, making a motion like a fighter refusing to back down more sexually than any fighter Greg had ever seen (including those coming out of certain nightclubs.)

“Over-gentrified git,” Greg ventured, going for alliteration and length.

“ _Commoner_ ,” Mycroft said, echoing his mother’s horror. Greg gave up. He chose instead to pull Mycroft closer and kiss him as lavishly as he could manage, really giving it both a punk’s grunge and an intensity that came from picturing exactly what he wanted Mummy to see when she woke up.

“Ugh,” Sherlock said, waking up, then when he saw his brother and Greg; “ _ugh_!” 

Mycroft and Greg didn’t spring apart so much as they leisurely unwound. Mycroft casually reached down and plucked the paintballing gun from Her hands. Sherlock frowned then his eyes widened.

“What do you think, Gregory?” he asked, smiling in a perfectly, deliciously evil manner, “A thirty second head start?”

“Hmm… ten.” Greg smirked as Sherlock shook John awake desperately.

“Nine,” Mycroft said.

“Eight.” Sherlock helped John to his feet.

“Seven.”

“Come _on_ , John,” Sherlock pulled the door open as:

“Six,” Greg said, watching him fumble.

“Five.” Sherlock pulled John out the door and slammed it behind him.

“Four.” They could hear the scarpering up the corridor.

“Three,” Mycroft said, drawling it out while somehow retaining perfect enunciation.

“Two.” Greg looked at his lover and grinned. They were going to enjoy this.

“One.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on PC_Hopkins' wonderful (if painful) "If It's Not One Thing It's Your Mother." Left unfinished, the plotlines in this fic haunted me for months. In an attempt to find a happy resolution for Greg and Mycroft's problems I wrote this fic.  
> The character of 'Mummy' is based on Annis from IINOTIYM; all other characters from BBC Sherlock.  
> There isn't a vehicle licensing centre in Brightlingsea; the nearest is in Colchester, but I thought they might have a greater font of resources for Anthea to abuse. That whole line is a reference to the Yes Minster concept of the vehicle licensing centre in Swansea, which was unfortunately, too far from Norfolk to be a reasonable base for Anthea's operations.


End file.
